


Winter Moon

by waywardbard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Team Free Will 2.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardbard/pseuds/waywardbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben is just your every day gunsmith in the new world.  That is, until he gets himself tangled up in local trouble and finds himself in the company of an outsider who seems to think more is going on than a few missing Chinamen in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Benjamen Isaac Braeden had hoped that living in Oklahoma meant getting away from the damned cold, but sadly that didn’t seem the case. The summers had been warm sure enough, but the moment November hit, it started to flurry. By December, it was so cold his spit would freeze before it hit the ground. He _hated_ the cold. It irritated the bullet still embedded in his hip, too close to a major artery to operate on according to the old doctor he’d seen. Everything hurt. So he stayed indoors, as close to his wood stove as he could manage without setting himself on fire, and he worked on his trade. There was still hunting to be had in the winter, and hunting meant working on fixing or refurbishing guns. It also meant a full belly and sometimes a side of beast if he got the job done fast enough and the customer was feeling generous. Most weren’t able to bring back everything they found, after all, and it meant one less ride through the woods.

The light in the windows had long-since faded, forcing him to work by lantern light if he wanted to finish the job of the day. His dinner –- fried potatoes, cured deer strips, and the last wedge of cheddar still left in his cellar –- had gone cold in his distraction, though Horace -– his coonhound –- hadn’t seemed to mind. It was better than throwing it out for the vermin outside. His cabin was quiet save for the occasional sniff of the dog or the cracking of the flames licking the wood. That’s why it was especially noticeable when he heard the distant sound of sobbing, somewhere outside. Horace’s head rose and he turned it in the direction of the door, then gave a low growl. Ben frowned, putting down the gun and reaching for his own rifle.

“C’mon,” he commanded. The dog rose to its feet, heading out through the door before him when he opened it, leading the way with his gun in one arm and the lantern in the other. There was nothing but darkness way out ahead of him. No sign of people.

“Anybody out there?” he called out. His voice was amplified by the nearby trees, but so was the sound of the sobbing. Still, there was no verbal answer. Ben looked down at Horace, giving his head a toss, and the dog took off into the woods. Several minutes passed, but the dog returned with no sign, and the sobbing continued. He was just about to step out from beneath the roof cover when it stopped, just as suddenly as it had begun. Ben stood still in the loud, eerie silence that followed, then gave a huff.

“Probably just some owl,” he muttered. Horace ran back inside, and with one last, lingering look over his shoulder, Ben followed.


	2. Chapter 2

The day after a deep freeze was always slow to move; everything seemed frozen, not just the trees, the frosted metal hinges of every door or panes of glass of every window in town - those that were hearty enough (or plum stupid enough) to venture out before the noon thaw had icicles in their joints.

At least, that’s what Claire Novak felt like. The night hadn’t been a kind one, and if it hadn’t been for that derelict grain silo on the edge of some poor farmer’s field a few miles back, the freeze would’ve crawled right on in through her boots and killed her stiff. Undignified way to go. She had better plans than that.

The dark shapes of the nearest settlement were the godsend she’d been hoping for that morning, with Dart ambling cold and hungry beneath her, after last night’s sleepless struggle to stay awake, she needed a day or two to thaw out. Maybe kill the wolf growling in her stomach with the same stone. Unfortunately, the half-frozen bay swayed to a stop, snuffling steam in the morning air. Claire followed suit with a long, weary sigh that filtered her breath through the old scarf pulled up around her nose.

“I gotta drag your ass?” she said, just to shake the ice from her vocal chords. The drop from the saddle hurt more than it should have. She felt it with each and every slow step through the snow, leading her horse into town. Another rider came trotting up behind her, the horse’s hooves clopping along the hardened ground, then passed her. Its rider was similarly dressed, though the coat he wore -- military from the looks of it, but old and dirty -- hanging down the sides of the horse’s flanks. He looked back just once before continuing on, heading straight toward the general store.

“That’s right, keep ridin’,” she muttered to herself, watching the figure keep to his own trek. Sore from the cold and weak from fatigue and her long-forgotten last meal a day and a half ago, she still had the gumption to curl her fingers around the hilt of a hidden revolver. Just in case. Always, just in case.

After trading a few pieces of old jewelry that could be melted down, Dart had a warm stall and oats in his greedy stomach. That brought her down to dire financial straights - only enough for a hand of poker or three fingers of whiskey. Tempting as that was on an empty stomach, a good hand and a few friendly rubes could get her enough to get to Kansas City with a few bowls of stew in between.

Every town, no matter how small, had a saloon. They weren’t hard to pick out, even without signs; just follow the smell of fermented hicks and sawdust on the floor to cover the vomit or blood. This little burg had probably been one of the better ones before the railroad came through, but the multitude of foreigners of all shapes and sizes Claire passed on her way in showed the price of progress. Handfuls of people clustered in the lantern-lit tavern, all wary of each other and speaking different languages - not a real friendly place, but it was good for her. She didn’t stick out in a place like this.

Minus the dust-brushing leather coat she came into town with, the newcomer in thick trousers, heavy scarf and broad rimmed hat placed herself down at the open game. A pair of clear blue eyes met the dealer, then the two players settling in on her sides. A still-gloved hand dropped her ante on the table.

Every time the doors open, a draft flew in with the newest patron, scattering anything that wasn’t nailed down or heavy. The man in the waistcoat came in, heading straight for the bar, a wrapped up parcel tucked under his arm. The bartender beamed at him easily, grabbing a bottle from down below.

“Wasn’t expectin’ ta see you for another few days, Braeden.”

Braeden dropped the parcel on the bartop and pushed it toward the tender, who immediately started pouring him a glass.

“Y’don’t gotta do that, Mark. Your moonshine’ll knock me off my horse before I’m even halfway home.”

That set the bartender to laughing immediately, and he filled the glass part way with water from a barrel cup.

“Least I could do fer you gettin’ the job done fast. Almost thought I’d seen the last of that ole gun.”

“Well if ya didn’t use it to shoot flies, maybe it would last ya a bit longer’n three years, eh?”

A chorus of disappointed, slightly annoyed groans erupted from the game corner. Three hands down and Claire’d collected the next week’s lodging and food. She scooped up her winnings, contemplating going for enough to grab a new box of ammo when the conversation at the bar caught her attention.

Gunsmiths were good as gold out here, and it was no surprise this town had caught one, what with the rail coming through. He probably wasn’t doing too bad, business wise. Good fish to get on the end of her hook, especially since her other two ‘friends’ seemed to have tired of the game.

“You in for more?” the dealer interrupted her thoughts. Her eyes flicked up from the pile of coins she’d stacked under her fingers. She nodded curtly. He answered with the same, then made the announcement for an open table.

“Don’t suppose there’s been any missing persons reported lately?”

The bartender’s brows rose. “Nothin’s come in here yet that I’ve heard. Why you askin’?”

Braeden brought the cup up to his lips, took a deep swig, then put it back on the table, one hand coming to scratch at the scraggly beard on his cheek.

“No reason. Prob’ly just my imagination messin’ with me.”

The bartender reached over and gave his shoulder a pat. “You really oughta get yourself a wife, kid. Ain’t nobody should be out in the middle’a nowheres by themselves, ‘specially in the winter. What’s gonna happen when you die in your bed, hmm?”

“Reckon Horace’ll eat me, then escape, sure enough. Thanks for the drink, Mark. You have yourself a good day.”

“An’ you, son.”

Beneath her scarf, Claire’s lips pressed tight. Not only did the thick-wallet not take the bait of a good game of poker, he just had to spring a conversation that had a hell of a lot more importance than swindling folks for pennies here and there just to move on to the next job.

Barring a disappointed poker dealer she’d never think about again, the gunsmith had himself a shadow heading out into the dropping temperature. She didn’t make much of an effort to keep herself hidden; no keeping to the buildings or shadows, Claire kept her steps in the ones he made through the snow, crunching away. She wanted him to know she was there.

“I’m all backed up on work right now, so unless yer askin’ for directions, I suggest ya get a move on,” he said without turning around to look at her, working the rope holding his horse to the hitching post free.

“Oh, I will,” she answered him quickly, but kept a respectful - or careful - distance. The hand on her hip was equally precautionary, but mostly subconscious by now. “Just as soon as I can. All I got’s a couple questions ‘bout what you told the barkeep in there.”

He stopped what he was doing and immediately turned his head, looking in her direction. His eyes -- a deep, muddy sort of green flecked with gold -- found hers, his brow scrunched up. A beat of silence stretched between them, then the tops of his cheeks seemed to brighten in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize. What can I do for ya?”

“Well of course you didn’t realize,” she quipped, a smirk hidden behind the scarf. “Not like I purchased this fine travelin’ outfit from _Gay Pair-ee._ “

The man let out a breath of a laugh, his shoulders lifting with it, and his smile turned hard into his right cheek as he brought one gloved hand up to the back of his head.

“So what’s this about you’re imagination and missin’ persons?”

“Just that, ma’am,” he said. “I live out yonder--” one arm pointed down the long road they came in on. “--prob’ly twenty miles at least in the woods. Near the tracks, y’know? The ones they’re buildin’, I mean. Thought maybe one’a them Chinamen’s kids or somethin’ maybe wandered near my house last night, on account of my hearin’ someone cryin’.”

“Out by the worker camp?” The blue eyes between her hat’s shadow and the scarf squinted. She’d seen the lights not too long before the snow really picked up and forced her to shelter.

“Reckon so,” he answered, shifting on his feet as he looked at her. “But like I said, ain’t likely. What would send some kid into the woods as late as that? Not unless he’d already been lost. I sent my dog out to look’n see if he’d find somethin’, and he came back empty, so I s’pose it was just an owl. You know how some of ‘em can sound pretty damn--” he winced. “Sorry. Uh, pretty human.”

“Yeah... Yeah, they can.” Something about the woman’s voice was distracted. _Distant_ , like the glint in her eyes when they shifted out toward the road to the woods. It was clear where her next destination would be, but she wasn’t looking forward to it. Foreigners, no matter what nationality, were tight knit groups, and God knew her Chinese, Romanian, Dutch, _whatever menagerie_ of languages she’d encounter... wasn’t exactly pristine - more like non-existent. The railroad foremen weren’t known for their hospitality toward people going around asking questions, either.

A sigh pushed more steam through the filter of her scarf. “Well, thanks anyway.” Claire tugged at her gloves, then tipped her hat to the gunsmith, then turned toward the stables. She could feel his eyes watching her the entire time, his body unmoving, until she finally disappeared from his line of sight.


	3. Chapter 3

“Won’t be much longer,” Ben muttered to Horace, who was staring at the top of the wood stove with the same kind of hunger as he was. He’d gotten a little too into the next job, and before he knew it dark had settled and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Horace had bothered him every twenty minutes and he hadn’t understood why, other than to let the dog out to relieve himself. Horace turned his head and snorted indignantly at him before settling his muzzle on the floor.

“I said I was sorry. Lord, have mercy, you’d think you weren’t capable of messin’ up every once in a while.”

Most people would say that if a person talked to themselves, they were crazy. It was completely acceptable, however, for him to talk to his dog as though the dog would answer him.

The wind picked up outside, making the whole cabin feel like it was shivering, and Ben pulled his coat a little tighter around him as he inched closer to the stove. Then, the same as had happened the night before, he heard the sobbing sounds again. They actually sounded closer than the previous night. Horace’s head once again rose and he growled, glaring at the door. Ben scowled in concern.

“Just an owl, Horace. Ignore it.”

But it was much harder to ignore the sudden pounding that shook his front door on its hinges. Ben startled hard, and Horace jumped to his feet, barreling toward the door to bark at the offender on the other side. That wind, one that could penetrate the thin slats of a frontier house, made easy work of a tanned leather duster. It worked with the growing darkness to reach deep, past the many layers of clothing, skin and muscle to frost the bones and make them brittle. Winter nights on the prairie could be brutal, but this...

“I ain’t come for any trouble!” Claire called out at the door, pounding her half-froze fist on the planks again. She would’ve just broke herself in if it hadn’t been for the faint glow inside - someone was home, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of catching a bullet just for a surprise entry, though with how cold it’d gotten in the last ten minutes, she might warm to the idea if it got her out of the damn freeze.

Ben blew a sharp whistle between his teeth and the dog drew back from the door. He recognized the voice, even though he’d only heard it the once. It was hard to forget, given the memory attached to it. Working the lock open, he pulled the door back and looked out into the darkness, the backlight of his lanterns lighting her face.

Almost immediately, she stepped back off the porch, holding both hands up in a penitent display, though one still had Dart’s lead rope coiled around it. Her hat was pushed down to her brows to keep the wind from taking what was left of her body heat, but this time the scarf that hid her face was bundled at her neck and chin. It was clear she was fighting a hard case of shakes, which still twitched her bottom lip.

But something lit her eyes when she recognized the first bit of good luck she’d had all day. This house belonged to the damn gunsmith.

“Horse spooked an’threw me; all I need’s to thaw out a bit while the wind dies down.”

Ben frowned, instantly finding the need to warm her. “We’ll find ‘em in the mornin’, come on inside.”

Just crossing the threshold was enough to gain some feeling back in her feet, though as she shook off the snow and the frost next to the stove, she wasn’t sure they’d ever come off. Her soles were good and molded into the old leather.

“Gotta stroke’a luck findin’ you out here - thanks again.” Claire tipped a grateful nod at him before blowing into her cupped hands.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied easily, heading into the little kitchen off the main space and opening a cabinet. In a matter of seconds he had a hot tin cup in her hands, slowly darkening with tea and honey.

“Wasn’t expectin’ to see you out this way this late.”

Still in the shadow of her hat, a mild chuckle - more colorless than anything - disturbed the steam coming up from her cup.

“No, s’pose you wouldn’t.” She rolled her lips and re-gripped the cup, leaching out its warmth. An explanation was probably expected, and she’d give him one. Just not a full one. The rail-folk certainly didn’t take to her wandering all that well, especially when a few of the foremen heard an Irishman tell her one of the upper ranks meandered into the woods last night and hadn’t come back. An explanation like that would only lead to more questions; Mr. Gunsmith here didn’t need that trouble.

“I gotta habit’a gettin’ stuck in sticky situations.” More mild humor seemed the best route so far. “Call it a family curse.” She shrugged and sighed, leaning back in the chair, peeling the hat off her head to reveal a shock of wind-swept wheat colored hair, tangled in a thick braid that reached lower than her scarf. “Bad weather follows me.”

Ben smiled wryly, checking the pot on the stove and finally pulling it off, filling up two bowls with a hearty stew he’d been cooking. He put the first bowl on the ground, and Horace rushed over with a rapidly wagging tail. With a moment’s hesitation, he offered her the bowl.

“Oh don’t be too hard on yourself. It was already snowin’ when ya got here.”

A somewhat pleasant smirk tugged into her cheek. She accepted the bowl after a moment of thought, uttering yet another thank-you as he went to go get another empty bowl for himself. His literal interpretation went untested.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get lost in them woods, bein’ new to the area. It might be winter, but there’s still wolves and the like,” he told her. “Night ain’t that safe.” The woman nodded, biting back an initial reaction by occupying her mouth with a big piece of potato.

She had to wonder how right he knew he was. Most people beyond the Mississippi were cautious, but only a handful knew what there was out there, to truly be feared, rather than wolves and highway robbery. That thought switched on another memory.

“You hear anythin’ else out here, ‘sides the wolves an’the owls?”

“Nope,” he said, ladling the stew into his bowl until it nearly dribbled off the side. He moved over to the cot, having not had any other chair to sit in. He chewed his lower lip for a moment, then ate a spoonful. “Though I gotta say, I’m a li’l surprised how loud they are. Starting to wonder if maybe they haven’t made a nest up in my roof.”

She stopped chewing for a moment, watching him, then looking up to the cross-beams of the little prairie home. Obviously, he wasn’t talking about the wolves, and the little she knew about owls included the fact that they probably didn’t like being all that close to a big ole’coonhound like his friend.

“About when did you hear it last?”

“Maybe twenty minutes before you arrived?” he answered, watching her carefully. Her expression didn’t change, but only because she’d had half her life to practice the poker-face. She was, however, fairly alarmed.

She’d been expecting an answer about last night - not within the last hour. If this thing was what she thought it was, someone from that worker camp was out in those woods. Suddenly, the woman in drifter’s clothes was just as much action as she was stoic stillness a second earlier.

“You gotta back door to this place?” she asked quickly, pushing back from the table and shoving her hat back down on her hair. Ben’s eyes widened.

“No, ma’am. Just the front door.”

“Good,” she said just as quick, meeting his eyes for a solid moment of hard, pointed connection. “Stay inside, no matter what you hear.” One hand that’d disappeared in an inner pocket pulled out a well worn flask, which she opened on her way to the front door. A blast of cold drifted in when she opened it, stooped to pour a line of rock salt across the threshold. “And _don’t_ muss up this line.”

Everything happened faster than he could process, and before he really had a moment to open his mouth with an objection, she was gone. He stared at the closed door, then at the deep white line she’d drawn. It looked like salt. A quick dab with his wetted finger confirmed it.

“The hell...”

* * *

The wind had only picked up since she tore from the gunsmith’s home in a mad rush into the dark, armed only with instinct and the lantern she lifted off the hitch on his barn. Ten steps out, she’d already put a strict time limit on her search. Hoping to save someone who was likely already an icicle was a noble venture, but it sure as hell wasn’t worth becoming one herself. She was no good to anybody dying while hunting for a corpse.

The thought that kept her going through the shakes, through the knife-like pain in her toes and fingers, was that she was able to quick-ward her helper’s house. If she missed her time and got caught in the white-out, at least there was that. It wasn’t much though. Not when the only flash of movement that caught her eye was Dart, who’d taken shelter behind a throng of thick growing trees.

Three hours since she left, a dark figure melted out of the darker woods, disturbing the swirl of the snow. She could see his face in the window, staring out in her direction. Trudging worn and more than half-frozen back up to the gunsmith’s front door with her horse in tow. He opened it before she could reach it.

“Take’m ‘round to the barn and get ‘em inside. There’s hay’n water.”

From between her hat and the scarf, her eyes sought out his face over the distance, then she nodded wearily, steering Dart off toward the barn. After de-tacking the thick muscled bay and breaking the ice-film that covered the water in the trough, she made it back to the main house. Where she noticed the salt line neat and unbroken. That was rare, and a definite credit to Mr. Gunsmith.

“Most people would’a called me crazy,” she said, peeling off her frosted gloves. “You got good instincts.”

“My ma was superstitious,” he said, frowning as he studied her. Her smirk was a pleasant one, aside from the fact that she’d just come in from a wild goose chase.

“Makes sense.” Her hat joined the worn gloves on the table, followed by her scarf. Though she kept the thick coat on, a small collection of various charms and archaic pendants hung from chains around her neck, tangled in the buttons of her shirt. A dual belt and holster crossed her hips with a gun on each side, and a strap cut across her torso, obviously rigged for a rifle that was missing from the whole ensemble. He continued to watch her, his face becoming more and more unreadable as she undressed.

“You need to be puttin’ on _more_ layers, ma’am; not takin’ ‘em off. You’re not exactly dressed for what you’ve been doin’ just now.” He stood awkwardly. “I’ll draw you a bath.”

Once again, he’d said something that struck a chord down deep, stopping her in her tracks with a stare in his direction. It mixed surprise and just a tiny bit of conditioned contempt - not like it was the first time a man suggested she get down to nothing in his house, but she knew this was different.

“Well, Mister Gunsmith, I was just takin’ off the wet things ‘fore they suck the last bit of heat out’a my body, but if you’re gonna play hostess...” The lopsided smile she sent him while draping her coat on the chair so it could dry. “Might as well call me Claire.”

She caught sight of him as he brought a large soup pot to the water pump set on the far wall of the kitchen, his face bright red. Once he’d filled it to the brim, be brought it to the wood stove and stuck the lid on it. Then he brought a smaller pot and started filling it again.

“Ben,” he mumbled. “And Horace.”

“I owe you a handful, Ben.” Claire rubbed her hands together, massaging the warmth and feeling back into them. “There’s no way I would’a made it back to town in this.”

Horace watched her from where he’d settled just outside the salt line, then stood and trotted over to her. Without even a sniff at her, he put his face in her lap. She snuffled at him, and rubbed his floppy ears. “You too, big boy.”

Ben dumped the first pot of water into the little bath tub, then went back to pumping again. Even through his heavy shirt, his muscles were well defined.

“Couldn’t just leave you out there,” he said in the same low voice, the blush in his skin still not quite faded.

“Some would,” she said a little quieter, looking up from paying the hound-dog the attention he was due. “Hell, _most_ would. Or ask for a lot more in return than was due.”

“I know better’n to get in another soldier’s way, ma’am,” he said, dumping another bucket into the bathtub. “Granted, I ain’t ever seen a woman soldier before, but I know what one looks like. Can’t say I didn’t rely on a few people’s hospitality in my life.”

The subtle smile on her face warmed a shade or two, somehow without really moving. The look was mainly in her eyes, like she was seeing more of him by every minute. She definitely liked what she was seeing, too. Not every day she came across someone actually worth the look - even if she did lay herself down for their faceless sakes.

“You’re one of only a few, then.” Since the feeling was starting to tingle back in her fingertips, she worked them around the end of her braid, undoing the weave. After six pots worth of water had been dumped into the tub, all that was left was waiting for the water to come to a boil. He strolled over to it, lifting the lid for a quick peak, then put the lid back down again. A quick trot over to a nearby dresser found him returning with a large wooden spool of fishing twine. He moved back to the tub area, looking up at the rafters overhead. Claire was watching him closely the entire time.

“Did you work a town militia?”

“On occasion,” she answered, threads of truth wrapped around her careful words. Though she wasn’t completely convinced giving him a deeper explanation would’ve been wise, the idea was growing on her. He already mentioned coming from a superstitious background, he was obviously willing to help someone in need, and now... ingenuitive. “It’s a bit more complicated. I see you were enlisted.” Her head tipped toward the blue coat in the corner.

He gave a breath of a laugh, then threw the spool underhand and up. It flew over the beam, dropping to the other side. Trotting over to the little cot he slept on, he grabbed the quilt and brought it over. After drawing out the twine a good length, he draped the blanket across it, then threw the spool over the next. He started looking around for something to mount it to so it would support the weight.

“Once upon a time,” he admitted.

Ingenuitive _and_ courteous. Claire found herself following the movement of Ben’s left hand, fully expecting to see a ring. The little frontier house they were in obviously didn’t have a woman living in it, but there could be a number of explanations for that. She wasn’t about to assume, but she couldn’t deny the little thread of delight that came with no sign of a gold band. Getting to her feet, she held her hand out for the spool in order to coil it around the leg of the bench near the door.

“Figure it’s a past you want dead and buried,” she said, commiserating in her own way. He took the other, loose end of the twine, and tied it to the leg of the tub once it was pulled tight. The quilt hung just long enough to reach the top of the bathtub. Another quick check at the pot had the water boiling, which he brought over to the tub and slowly poured in. Steam started rising the moment it hit the cold water.

“That jar on the ground has lye soap in it, and the other one has a soda mix,” he explained, not quite meeting her eyes though his voice was relaxed enough. “I use the soda mix in my hair. Just add a little water in your hand and kinda make it into a paste. There’s, uh... some rosemary powder in it.”

She sent him another look, discreet as she could make it from behind her hair. A soft breath toyed with the slightly gnarled curls in a soundless laugh. He was definitely different, if in a way she couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe living out on the edge of civilization was starting to get to him.

“I got a few recipes my own,” she quipped lightly, digging into the largest of the four satchels sewn into the lining of her coat. The small pouch she produced smelled of a specific dried flower and the spice of ground cloves. “Never turn down a gift from an Apache juju-woman. Good advice if you ever leave this little homestead.”

Ben gave a little laugh, bringing the large soup pot back to the water pump as an afterthought and starting to fill it again.

“Ain’t really done a lot of talkin’ with the injuns, but I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m outta soap.” Once it was filled, he brought it back to the wood stove, keeping his eyes pointedly away from the bathtub area. She watched his back for a moment longer, biting back the amused smirk and unbuckling the guns on her hips.

“I’m surprised you do any talkin’ to _anyone_ way out here.” The pistols and their holdings settled heavy on the wooden floor, right next to the tub where she could reach. Next, she ducked under the rifle strap and put it down as well, then pulled open her shirt - it was actually made for a teenage boy and fit awkwardly around certain curves, but it was better than a high-collar ladies frock that choked her when she tried to look over her shoulder. And it didn’t pinch like a damn corset.

Ben settled in the chair again. Horace came over to his side, then laid down and turned belly up. He smirked down at the dog, leaning down to rub him.

“You’re turnin’ soft, dog,” he said quietly to it, then spoke up so Claire could hear him. “I get to town once or twice a week, but yeah. I like it out here. It’s quiet. Or it was, anyway.”

“Railroad’ll change that.” Claire said it as she shrugged off the boy’s shirt and dropped it to the floor. The collection of charms clinked together, bouncing off her breastbone as she stepped out of her boots and boy’s trousers.

Ben could feel the blush growing hotter and hotter on his face. It was the closest he’d been to a naked woman since his mother, and that hardly counted. He tried not to focus on the sound of her clothing continuing to fall.

“Reckon they’ll be comin’ through to clear out the woods soon. Town’ll start crawlin’ out this way. I’ll have neighbors before the year is out.”

The sound of moving water joined a brief hiss pulled in through her teeth. The water was hot, but not unbearably so, it just seemed harsh compared to how cold the rest of her was. It felt bone deep, but melted away quickly, especially when she sank down to her shoulders. Claire wasn’t so much phased by the presence of a virtual stranger in the room with her; if he were a threat - of _any_ kind - she’d deal with it as it came, but trusting her gut had been a life strategy, and she got nothing but good feelings from Ben the Gunsmith. That, and propriety hadn’t been a priority of hers since she was a girl. Back when she still believed things like that really mattered.

“You don’t sound so excited about that,” she said. Claire sat up in the tub, working a lather of her sachet and a bit of borrowed soap between her palms.

“I...” he started, then faded out to nothing. “I ain’t a big fan’a cities. All this progress is why there was a war in the first place.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Maybe I’ll head further west. Lots’a people headin’ west these days.”

“Not a bad plan.” The water fogged from the soap, but the heat and steam carried its scent through the warm air in the cabin. It mixed with the humidity and tang of woodsmoke, and the faint sounds of her washing. “I keep west of the River, myself,” she added, then paused long enough to hold her breath and dip under, just long enough to soak her hair, which had her attention next. “I don’t really fit anywhere eastward. Not anymore.”

His head turned in her direction, even though he didn’t see her. Heat once again rose in his face. He rolled his lips in thought, trying to sort his thoughts.

“You a bounty hunter?”

She didn’t answer him right away, rolling over her own thoughts and the possible answers she could give. To buy herself a little time, she dipped back under the surface and combed the soap from her hair. Almost as soon as she came back up, she said, “Not exactly.”

Any heat in his face drained straight out, and his stomach leaped with anxiety. He stood calmly, going to a cabinet near his bed and opening it quietly.

“Oh yeah?”

His movements were listened to, at first by reflex, then a cautious curiosity. The subtle change in his tone didn’t exactly ease her mind away from the sort of paranoia-tainted impulses that kept her alive this long. The next words out of her mouth were filtered with a new level of caution.

“I don’t hunt people for money, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

He had picked out a hand gun, an old Winchester he’d had since he was a boy that fit in his hand as though it had been carved out of him. He’d opened the ammo box, but didn’t reach inside to take out the bullets quite yet. She didn’t hunt people for money, but she hunted... what?

He had a feeling it had something to do with the salt on the floor, and the questions she’d asked him in town. Maybe she was a missionary. He’d heard about missionaries traveling west, too. Convert the injuns and the Chinamen, by any means necessary. It reminded him so much of the Confederates that it made his stomach churn.

He took a breath, let it out, and closed the ammo box, then put back the handgun. _Not like she’s gonna be here longer than the night. She’ll be gone in the mornin’,_ he told himself.

His silence was time-lined by the subtle sounds of movement - things being placed and unplaced - all adding to the little line of tension that felt distinctly different than the standard. Claire had her right hand dangling over the edge of the tub, ready to snatch a pistol from the belt on the floor if she needed it. She’d been in tight spots before, but starting a fight while in the tub - that’d be a new one. Rolling the dice, she decided to continue.

“You said your Ma was superstitious-- she ever wear any old charms, never took’em off?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice softer and quieter. Ben swallowed and closed his eyes, running his hand over his face again. Thinking about his mother in any capacity still hurt. “My father was a drifter,” she said. “They met when she was young. He told her things. She thought he was mad, until she saw somethin’ herself. Then he left, and a couple months later, I showed up.”

Despite the heat in the water, a distinct chill ran down Claire’s spine. Things clicked into place, fitting better than she’d ever expected. _Knew something was different_. It could be coincidence, but in Claire’s world that world meant very little. Ben sounded very much like the son of a hunter. She cleared her throat lightly, then went on.

“One’a the things she wore look like a star in the middle of a circle? One with flames around it.”

His head turned in the direction of the curtained-off bathtub. He swallowed hard.

“She had to hide it,” he said. “We got run outta town once. They thought she was a witch.” He gave a bitter, angry laugh. “I was nine.” Claire’s jaw tensed for half a second, biting back a memory that tried to surface. Best save it for later - if there was a later. For now, there was a point to get to.

The water around her body moved again as she looped one of the necklaces from around her hair, and tossed it lightly under the curtain to where she could see the tip of his boot. The pendant was the same interlocked star within the flaming sun. It skittered to a stop and he looked down at it. It felt like his heart stopped.

“I hunt the things those charms protected her from,” she said in complete seriousness. “Those things and more.”

He bent down to pick it up, lifting it to his eyes. His pulse returned, then doubled, and he took a deep breath. He’d never seen the things his mother told him stories of, but she spoke with such conviction, such faith, that he’d never questioned her. The pendant in his hand could have been his mother’s, except shiny and new where his mothers had been dented and cloudy. Tin versus silver.

“Okay.”

The subject was one that’d moved way past being able to be properly discussed while she was naked in a tub. Claire took another quick look at her guns before pushing herself to her feet and quickly drying off with the towel from the floor. “It ain’t somethin’ you go about advertisin’, but...” Over the curtain dividing the room, with her hair still heavy with water and clinging to her face and shoulders like velvet ribbons, Claire met his eyes. “I can see it in your face you believe me.”

Ben kept his eyes focused high, though they immediately widened at her exposed shoulder, color once again rushing fast to his face. The moment she was gone again, he turned his back to her.

“It ain’t owls I heard, is it?”

“No,” she answered with a huff, tousling her hair with the towel until it stopped dripping rivers down her spine. “I’d bet all I got that it wasn’t owls.”

Ben swallowed hard, his eyes lifting to the window near his door to stare out into the blackness. A tree blocked his way, but already creatures his mother told him stories about, lurking outside. She’d told him that the chances of it being a monster were slim, that there weren’t a lot out there in the world, but they did exist. He was a grown man, and he’d seen people die in a lot pretty awful ways. Death by claws and jaws didn’t sound so frightening. Horace bumped his head into his leg, then mouthed his hand to try and get his attention. He scratched his head absently.

“Look, I know its a lot to take in,” Claire continued breathily, pulling on articles of clothing. The task wasn’t easy considering her skin was still a bit damp. “You might want to just go back believin’ everythin’ the way it was before twenty minutes ago - I sure as hell wouldn’t blame you.”

“That’d be like tellin’ me to ignore the river of Whiskey runnin’ by my house after findin’ it, ‘cept with less-cheery results.”

A sound of agreement scraped Claire’s breath as she nodded, watching her fingertips work the buckle of both ammo belts.

“That’s about the long and short of it,” she said, pushing the quilt curtain aside and crossing into his space. Her hair was still wet and made her shirt damp, the buttons did up to the minimum amount of decency. She didn’t seem to notice or care, only held out one hand. “I’ma need that necklace back.”

Ben stared at her for a moment, feeling some of the air empty out of his lungs at the sight in front of him, but quickly held the charm back out to her by the rope. His eyes gravitated back up again, silent and wide. Claire didn’t miss the long look, but took the charm back before letting in any other reaction show first.

Maybe it was shell shock, or a version of it, dropping his guard on the rest of his control. Poor man holed himself up in the middle of nowhere with little to no contact - however fleeting, and she wasn’t exactly being a school marm in manners. Either way, she kept a dutiful watch on his face as she looped the cord around her neck and rearranged her hair from under it.

“You stare too hard, your eyes’er gonna dry out.”

“I, uh...” he stammered, quickly moving around her to grab the hot pot of water and move around the curtain. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m just--” he made a strange, warbling noise, then there was the sound of water being dumped into the tub.

She tracked him with her eyes, but managed to button the rest of her shirt, at least to the bit of string that no longer contained a button.

“You ain’t gotta ‘pologize,” she assured him, a studious look on her face. “You just got barrel-rolled with a new world’a bad things - I’m just makin’ sure you ain’t broken.”

“I ain’t,” he replied, putting the pot on the ground and starting to strip off his layers. It was strange even _talking_ to another person, someone who responded. He felt like his vocal chords were getting a work out. As his shoulders and back were exposed, so were several long and twisted scars across his skin, as well as a few puckered dark spots. Though there were words on her tongue, the sight kept her silent for a while longer.

Each scar, discoloration or twisted reformation of skin told a separate story, and like the marks themselves, some went deeper than others. God knew she had her own fair share, and suddenly she was wondering if _that_ was what he’d been staring at. They always did draw the attention of anyone she let close enough to see them, if only for an hour or two of needed frustration release.

Claire looked away, her jaw setting in lieu of whatever it was she was going to say. Instead, she dug into her back pocket and fished out a thick piece of chalk.

“Good,” she finally muttered. The sound of chalk on the wood floor came with her next words. “Lets try to keep it that way.”

His body disappeared behind the curtain and a few moments later, the water swished against the sides of the tub as he sank into it. He gave a hiss, wincing as he settled. For a long time there was only silence, then his head lifted as he heard the sound of scraping on the floor. His arms came up over the side.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked, a little rushed, concern touching the words.

“Makin’ your house safe.” The sound of drawing continued as she etched ancient sigils into the circle at his door step. He frowned, hands gripping the sides of the tub, then he let a huff and sank back into the tub again.

“Juss--” he said, his voice slightly stilted. “Long as it ain’t permanent. Sometimes my customers come out this way, and I don’t--...” he stared down at the water and his body, so much older than he felt sometimes, and wondered just how hard he would have to run if they stormed his house.

“Don’t wanna look _loco_?” Claire answered by finishing his sentence, a hard note of sardonic humor in her own voice. She didn’t stop until the Devil’s Trap was finished. “Whether you trust me or not - there’re still worse things than bein’ chased off by a horde’a scared villagers. Besides--” She got to her feet when it was done, then dropped the dust-mat back down on the stoop. “It’s covered.”

“Miss Claire, I barely know ya,” he said quietly. “And I do trust you. That said, whatever this thing is, it ain’t gonna be forever, and while I might not stay here much longer myself, I wanna be able to buy supplies before I leave, and buyin’ supplies means havin’ coin to do it and people willin’ to sell to me.”

“Well, thanks for the economics lesson, Ben, but it ain’t got squat to do with this.” Claire wasn’t being curt, just to the point. There wasn’t much of a reason to beat around the bush now. Even if she did take off soon as she found what was out in the woods, at least he’d have half a leg up more than he did before she showed up. “What I put down on your doorstep ain’t meant to be seen, and the only Things that’ll know it’s there aren’t interested in doin’ fair business. They’d sooner skin you or wear you like a bad suit.”

Ben exhaled slowly , but didn’t argue. He’d heard about those things, too. That’s what the star charm was for, his mother said. Demons. The water felt much colder. Was that why the not-owl sounded so human? Because a demon was in the woods? _Circle of salt in the shape of a star, just like this, milove. They won’t be able to reach to you. Pray for them, ask the Lord to save them, and they will be sent away._ He could almost hear his mother’s voice. He reached over the edge of the tub, bringing up the lye soap jar.

“Now...” Claire was moving on, considering his long bouts of silence were grounds for a lot of confusing questions to get bottle-necked. She knew from personal experience. “Lucky for you, I don’t think what you got in your woods is one’a those.” He could hear her boots cross the cabin floor, along with the light chink of the leather holsters and number of other things on her person. “ _Unlucky_ for you, what I do think it is has a nasty habit’a pickin’ off men.”

“Wonderful,” he grumbled, standing up in the tub in order to start lathering the soap over his body. It would make more sense why she hadn’t heard it, given her proximity to his house when she’d arrived. He heard it clear as day. He chewed his lower lip hard, concerned.

“I got more askin’ around to do at the work camp when the sun comes up.” Her voice sounded less than confident in how much ground she’d gain, but it was the one trail she could still follow before actually stringing up someone as bait. Figuratively, of course.

“Do you even know what it is?” he asked, the water sloshing around him as he sank back in the water again.

“I got an idea,” she finally answered after the pause. “It lures its victims out in snow storms to freeze to death. Won’t be hard to get rid of once I pin it down, but that’s usually the tough part."

“Those woods go on for miles. You need someone who knows the area, or you’ll get lost in no time.”

Claire contemplated quietly, gnawing on the inside of her cheek - part of her habit for careful thinking. He had a good point; a guide would be an advantage, but he was little more than a greenhorn with good genes and a superstitious background. Where did the line go between asset and liability.

“It’s an offer,” he said quietly. Dipping his head under the water, he resurfaced and reached for the soda jar, shaking some of the powder onto his head before he started to work it in.

Claire sighed long and weary, her back set against the cabinet by the shack’s window. She’d been looking out for most of this conversation, but could see little more than the ghost of her own reflection, thanks to the dark. She tore her eyes from it, and scoured one of the two pistols on her hip - the obviously older one of the two.

“We’ll see how it goes.”


	4. Chapter 4

Claire waited until the wind died down and the deep blue horizon started to turn grey. By then, Dart was rested enough to get her back into town for a few hours of sleep. Thanks to that hot water soak, her muscles finally realized how tired they were; she was stiff and useless by the time she dragged herself up to the rented room and passed out still in her boots.

The dreams she had, though... For years, Claire had made a habit of exhausting herself to the point where she _wouldn’t_ dream; there was only enough room in her brain for so many nightmares. Occasionally one slipped through.

The images still weren’t fading as she made her way back out of town, to the fork in the road where she told Ben the Gunsmith she’d be. The destination wasn’t the sprawling woods near his property, though. She had to do more digging at the railroad camp. He wasn’t there when she arrived, but she heard the clip-clop of an approaching horse and within a matter of moments, she could see him come into view.

“Not too late to go back,” she called at him, swaying as Dart shifted weight. “These folks didn’t like me pokin’ around yesterday, and I doubt they’re gonna welcome it today.”

He gave her a little smile, waiting until he was closer before replying. “No offense meant, Miss Claire, but these foremen are old and set in their ways. It’s no wonder they prob’ly didn’t much care for you pryin’.”

Claire returned his smile with one that matched it.

“S’not the foremen I wanna talk to.” With a nudge from the inside of her boot heels, Dart started forward at a steady pace, then hitched up to a canter. Ben spurred his horse into a pace to match, settling on her right. He stayed silent for a good long while before speaking.

“Glad to see you made it back to the inn safe.”

“Just barely,” she said. “But I got some’a the best sleep I had in a long while thanks to you.” And her conscience was clear, thanks to the five dollar bill she left on his kitchen table. Now if she could just keep it that way, and not get him roughed up or worse, since he insisted on helping. Claire had it in her mind to just lay him out and leave him back in his little house, if that meant he’d stay clear of this mess, but unfortunately his having heard whatever was in the woods complicated things.

They continued on to the railroad worker’s camp in amicable silence, occasionally looking toward each other, then acting like they hadn’t. It was a strange feeling. It felt so much like being back in Sunday school again, back before people would find out who his mother was. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but he had a pretty good idea. Once they arrived, she got to work, and he merely shadowed her.

It took a lot more digging than she originally planned; everyone - and that meant _everyone_ on the grounds was tight-lipped about just about everything. And, just as she suspected, most of the few that were talking weren’t keen about doing it with a woman. The gist of it was that two foremen had gone missing in the same amount of days; the railroad brass were obviously upset about it, up in a tizzy and taking it out on those employees under their pay grade. Those below the pay grade - basically slaves on the wages big business got away with giving out - were tighter knit than a school marm’s dress.

At the end of the day, they’d only gotten one real confirmation, and it had been what they already knew: there had been a trail leading out toward the woods, and that had been the last they had been seen. Ben’s face was frozen in a frown as they headed back.

Already, the sun was going down.

“I’m gonna camp out close to the border,” Claire finally said, using the same matter-of-fact tone she usually did. “They sure as Hell ain’t keen on lettin’ me hang around, but if someone wanders out, I’ll keep myself where I’ll see’em.”

“My house is right on the border,” he pointed out quietly. She sent him a sideways look.

“Think you got a game-plan?” she asked after a pause, cautious, but genuinely inquisitive.

“There’s been two gone missin’?” he asked again, brows lifted as he looked at her.

“S’right.” Claire sat back in her saddle, a brow arched under her hat.

He frowned. “I heard noises twice. Reckon that we’d be able to track it.”

Her initial instinct was to dismiss that theory because that’s what she had spent hours doing that last evening, obviously to no avail - and she was a goddamned _fantastic_ tracker. But something stopped the words on her lips.

She hadn’t heard the thing. And damned if this thing was leaving tracks.

With an air of pensiveness, Claire looked his way again.

“That just might work,” she admitted coolly, but added in quick: “But there’s a few things you gotta learn, first.”

***

They were on their third pot of coffee, but nothing had happened yet. The silence was actually starting to become borderline uncomfortable, only because his mind was racing so fast. So, rather than sit there aimlessly staring out the window, he got a piece out and started to work on it. Horace sat by the door as if he knew something was up, head on his paws.

Her arms folded across her middle, fingertips at rest and grazing her pistol, Claire leaned against the wall, occasionally dozing thanks to lots of experience of catching as much sleep as she could combined with how warm it was in his cabin, especially since she hadn’t taken off her coat. Had to be ready the moment he heard something, and god knew she was likely going to miss the warmth before too long into the hunt.

Ben picked up the barrel on the gun, looked out through it, then frowned. There was build-up. He would have to chip it out. Cursing under his breath, he got up and went to the cabinet that held that particular tool -- it wasn’t one he used often -- and stopped at the sight of Claire in the middle of a drift. He bit his lower lip, eyes lifting to the dark window, then back to her again. There was such a softness to her face while she slept. It was... _No,_ he told himself, shaking his head, his jaw set. _Don’t go down that path. Ain’t gonna matter, in the end._

“Claire,” he said softly, not daring to reach out to touch her.

She didn’t stir, didn’t startle or even breathe differently; the only change was the immediate opening of her eyes, which quickly slid up to his face.

“Hearin’ anything?” she said quietly, willing the rest of her body out of the brief nap by rolling her shoulders. The right one popped. It always popped in the cold, ever since two years ago. He shook his head.

“Go lie in bed fer’a bit,” he said. “I’ll wake ya, moment I hear. But yer gonna regret sittin’ up like that in the mornin’, if it turns out nothin’ happens tonight.”

She watched him for a short, but definite pause, automatically dissecting the words before she realized they were in good nature. Just habit, of course. He’d have to forgive her. Though there was a coloring in his cheeks as the words seemed to be reevaluated in his head.

“’Preciate the offer,” she started with a small, lopsided grin. “--but my breed’a luck’ll make sure Hell breaks loose the minute I lay my head down. Don’t worry ‘bout me; I’m pretty used to it.”

He frowned but didn’t argue, going back to the cabinet and opening it, then finding the appropriate drawer. The thoughts were back in his head again, racing so fast it wasn’t a wonder his heart didn’t think he wasn’t actually running. He could swear his lungs did and he closed his eyes, dropped his head, and tried to block them out. She’d slept on the floor, last time she’d stayed. Would she stay again, if nothing showed up that night? Would she continue to, coming back every night until he finally heard something?

“You alright?”

She’d been watching him, and though she kept it from her face, the original concern was there. Though he had the instincts, the mindset wasn’t exactly something they grew over night. Something was eating him; Claire’d have questioned his humanity if it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, pushing the drawer closed, then closed the cabinet drawers. He kept his head pointed down as he moved back to his work station, putting plenty of distance between himself and her when he passed. “Too much coffee, I think. Feelin’ a little short’a breath.”

Nervousness was about as big a part of the scene as uncertainty and soul-crippling scares; Claire knew all three, intimate as lovers, but the longer she watched Ben, the less connected his anxiety seemed to what it damned well _should_. The lack of eye-contact was a big clue; he hadn’t had a problem with that so far - not that she’d noticed. The unnecessary detour around where she was sitting didn’t click, either.

The silence started to lengthen to the point of being noticeable, but she still said nothing. Silence didn’t bother her, but it pricked at most other people. Got them talking. So, she just kept a steady watch, moving only to remove her hat and sit it on the bench next to her, and lean elbows on knees, with her braid dangling like a noose from her shoulder.

He’d fiddled with the tool for a few seconds, adjusting and readjusting it before dropping it through the barrel to make sure it fit. Once he did, he dabbed a bit of cloth in a jar of some cloudy liquid, tied it around the end, and pushed it through. All of which he did in silence. The only thing that seemed to betray his calm was the steady rise of color in his face and his unusually fast breathing.

Either he’d start talking, calm himself down, or pass the hell out at this rate. She’d come across just about every breed of person in the last twenty years of her life, she made survival out of reading them (and learning from her mistakes - of which there were _many_ ) but there hadn’t been many deep and layered as the gunsmith. It was hard to have him pegged. Also, a bit of a liability, given the situation.

She knew he knew she was watching him, but was that the reason he lost himself in a menial task, or was it what they were waiting for?

“You scared?” she finally asked, her voice softened by sincerity. He flinched, just a little, at the sound of her voice, but otherwise continued to work.

“Naw,” he said. “Done my fair share of huntin’ and killin’. Just people and food, not things. Reckon it ain’t too different, though.”

Again, she let a silence fall between them before she answered.

“Some ways, maybe,” she agreed, pausing to wet her lips. “In a lot more, though...” Claire shook her head, letting the gesture alone convey points far too numerous to dig into right then. There were more pressing matters for the time being. “An’less you put some pressed cocoa leaf in your coffee, you shouldn’t look like you just spit in the devil’s face.”

Ben stopped the cleaning and ran a hand over his face, cracking a weak smile, though he continued to avoid looking at her.

“Haven’t drank this much coffee since I was...” he said, his voice barely a whisper, but then he shook his head. “I ain’t used to so much talk, Miss Claire. Or so much people, I reckon. Certainly not... well.” His shoulders slumped a little, and he brought his hand back up to work the tool through the barrel. “It ain’t nothin’ you did, what’s got me sweatin’. Not on purpose, anyway. Don’t mind me none.”

Claire’s eyebrows steadily rose into the escaped bits of her hair. Most of that, she understood, but the end bit had her gears turning in a different direction. She wasn’t able to think on it too long, since Horace suddenly jerked up to his feet, tense and staring at the door. A moment later, Ben’s eyes also turned toward it.

There had been the sob again. The other nights, he’d worried. Now he felt the need to look, to find it, to know where it was. _She’s hurt. She needs me. I can help her,_ he thought, pushing to the side and standing, retrieving his coat. Claire was on her feet the next instant, pushing her hat down on her hair.

“You sure y’ready for this?” she asked pointedly, but by the look on his face, she knew it didn’t matter. He got his gun, checking the rounds -- salt rounds, she’d shown him how to make them before loading them both up -- before he stuck it back into his holster. Once his hat was on, the door was thrown open.

“Horace,” he called out but the dog balked, letting out a whine of protest. The sob from the woods came again, even louder, and he let out a rough sigh before racing off toward the treeline.

“Guess so,” she huffed, then started after him.

The temperature had dropped noticeably, cold enough to reach through her many layers and make trudging through the snow even more difficult. Ben had a good head start and was moving like a fire had been lit under his ass. Claire had a good idea why, too.

Midway through the tromping, it had started to snow. Even worse, it seemed to be coming at them sideways, stinging like nettles, but Ben barely felt it. Every sob he heard seemed to twist in his stomach, making his heart ache. She sounded so lost, so lonely. He could empathize.

“Where are you!?” he called out. “Tell me where you are!”

The moment he spoke, the snow seemed to pick up, driven by a wind that made Claire recoil. Her fingertips were already burning cold, probably already half-stiff on the rifle stock already. She squinted through the white-out, but Ben wasn’t getting the full blast like she was.

“Ben!” she barked out. “Ben, don’t get too--”

A voice from in the woods called out, ethereal and light. It was the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard in his life. “ _Come to me_.”

It seemed to come from everywhere, and for a moment he stopped, but then he saw it; like a light in the forest, beaming in his direction. He ran for it with an extra burst of speed, eager to comply.

“ _Ben!_ “ He’d shot off into the woods like he could float over the snow, and here it was trying to bury her. Claire’s boot caught something hard, and she went down with the momentum. Swear words gritted through her teeth. The pain rolled around with the cold; everything ached, and all she could see was white.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d heard her, but it was no more important than the whine that Horace had let out. She wanted him. She _needed_ him, and he would do anything she wanted. Anything at all. The woods got thicker, filling out with evergreens, but the light got brighter too. It seemed to fill him with warmth.

“ _Come to me,_ “ she said again, smooth and lilting with an accent he didn’t recognize. His lungs ached, but he continued to run, until the forest opened up to a dark clearing, silent and still, blanketed in a thick layer of completely undisturbed snow.

In the middle, there was a shape of ink-slick black contrasting the pale around it. At first it was still, then the moment Ben’s boot crossed the treeline, it moved, slowly spreading as a fall of thick, unbound hair around the shape of a thin shoulder. White on white skin only stood off from the snow after a good half a minute for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he saw the shape of a woman.

The woman had been kneeling or crouching with her back to him, but slowly rose to her feet and turned. Facing him. His heart stuttered in his chest. She was _so_ beautiful. Her eyes seemed luminous and bright, so blue it was like the sky had been born from them. Something about her reminded him of the Chinawomen back at the railroad camp; that same exotic look about her face and eyes, lovely and elegant.

“I’m here,” he breathed out. “What do you need?”

Already, her arms lifted from her sides, beckoning, _pleading_.

“ _I’m lost,_ “ she said with streaks of tears lining her smooth cheeks. “ _And I’m cold._ “

He moved toward her without even a shadow of doubt in his mind, hands lifting to open his coat and invite her into it, against him.

“It’s okay. I’m here now. I’ll help you.”

She was so difficult to see against the snow, save for the veil of dark hair and strange, bright eyes. A smile might have touched her lips, but they were soon buried with the rest of her face into his shoulder, her arms wrapped under the warm cover of his coat. They gripped around him tight. _Too_ tight.

“ _Stay with me_ ,” her voice rang clear in his head, though the frigid feel of her lips never moved. He could feel the heat sapping out of him, and for a moment he felt that deep sense of alarm start to awaken in his head. Then he felt her lips trail along his throat, soft even though they were cold, her body shifting against him to press against his provocatively. All the will to pull away from her left him instantly.

“Always,” he breathed against her dark hair. “I’ll never leave you. Never.”

Her needful grip continued to strengthen with such subtlety, and her distraction so perfectly carnal, that the cold crawling back into his veins wasn’t even an afterthought. The harder his heart pumped, the faster the frost worked its way from every extremity inward. And the woman in his arms smiled against his skin.

Until suddenly, she tore away from him with a hard, _blood-curdling_ shriek. Her supple mouth had been replaced by a maw-full of jagged, uneven icicle-like teeth, bared when she thrashed back through the snow, spraying a black ooze from a large slice in her arm. The substance disappeared as soon as it hit the ground.

Without saying a word, and wielding a large, but thin iron machete in one hand, Claire had shot in front of Ben, and faced down a very _angry_ creature. Ben collapsed the moment he was free of her, but the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a streak of red, blazing and hot against the snow, to the sound of the wind howling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter rated 'explicit' for sexual situations.

The next thing he became aware of was the shaking. It felt like his teeth would rattle straight out of his head, and he tried to pull his legs up against his chest, to stuff his hands under his arms, but he couldn’t.

There was another body in the way.

“Whuzgoinown?” he chittered, his vision a fuzzy blur. He felt another weight settle against his back, this one smaller and familiar on a base level, but he didn’t look back to see it.

“You’re half froze,” Claire replied between some pretty labored breaths. Dredging through that trail with a man’s worth of dead weight on her back had been the hardest her body had worked in a long time, and god knew she wasn’t twenty anymore. Yet, somehow she’d managed to get them both back, and peel his wet coat and boots off before setting him down on the thin bed in his cabin.

“Keep talkin’ to me,” Claire added in a huff, working her own coat off quickly. Her boots and her hat were in a pile of mixed clothes by the door. Another two logs had been added to the stove, slowly replacing the warmth that had leaked while they were gone. “You gotta stay awake.”

Horace licked at his neck, hot and wet, and he shuddered. “We wuz...” he said thickly, teeth still chattering away. “The woods. How--?”

“How what? How’d I get you back here?” Claire shoved her coat away, then started fumbling with the buckles of her belt and holster - they were tingling, just this side of numb, and not wanting to work as fast as she needed them to. “ _That_  was a lotta fun I hope never t’have again.”

The guns and leather dropped to the floor, and Claire’s fingers moved to Ben’s shirt buttons. “What do you remember... jus’ keep talkin’.” She thought better of it, and just pulled them open. They came off in a string of audible pops and his eyes went wide, his whole body going tense with shock.

“I--” he stammered. “I-I-I heard her sob, an’ I ran for ‘er, an’ she told me to come so I came.”

“I think y’left your brain in the snow someplace,” Claire breathed, then quickly added: “Calm down-- you gotta get warm an’ I ain’t gonna bite’ya.”

She didn’t bother with her own button’s either, but smoothly pulled it over her head. If it was possible, his eyes seemed go even wider, and he immediately lifted them up to the ceiling to avoid looking at all the creamy skin suddenly available to him.

“Uhhhm. I, uh-- she-- the-- she kept...touching me, put herself right against me, an’ she wasn’t hard like a dead body is sometimes, she was soft, but she was cold like one.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Claire’s breaths were calming down, and her tone was dry, but she still moved with an urgency and sharp purpose. In the back of her mind she knew perfectly well how scandalously forward what she was doing was, but it didn’t matter. Consequences would come later; whatever they were, this mattered more. Once she shimmied her pants off her hips, she slipped under the blanket with him. She let out a hiss of surprise; his skin was still cold, sharp when it came into contact with hers.

“ _Jesus Christ!_ “ he bleated, trying to scramble backward. Horace let out a yelp and jumped off the bed, scampering beneath it, and he immediately felt the dog’s absence in the lack of warmth. Claire looked at him like he’d just called her a diseased whore instead of invoking the son of God.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” she started, obviously shocked. Too much so to be irritated, but it was a thin line.

“I--ahh, sorry, sorry, I-- you’re-- this-- I wasn’t expectin’--” he stammered, the chattering stopping in his panic but the shivering still as violent as ever. If anything, it had gotten worse. She felt like fire, that brief moment of touch.

“ _Crimany_ , so you’re keen on shackin’ up with a life-suckin’ snow-beast, but you’re gettin’ pious on me now?” Claire’s words weren’t necessarily harsh, but they were impatient. He was going to shiver himself right into a coma if she didn’t intervene, but she really didn’t feel like having to wrestle him to do it. She caught his eyes as best she could (difficult with how hard he was trying to avoid hers). When they finally connected he swallowed hard, a flush rising so rapidly in his face it was a wonder he hadn’t lost consciousness from the head rush.

“I wasn’t, ahhh, thinkin’ clear. She-- I ain’t never--”

 _I ain’t never_.

Those words bounced around in Claire’s skull, refusing to sink in. She’d seen and heard of a lot, she prided herself on being an excellent judge and reader of people, but  _that_  confession had never even crossed her mind. She was unable to do anything but stare at him until her thoughts caught up, and the real situation was still knocking her legs with hard shivers. Claire just needed to change her approach.

Rather than say anything, her hands found the still-cold skin on Ben’s chest. He tensed, and she paused, but only long enough to let his over-active nerves acclimate before letting them slide upward. They drifted to frame his face, and before he could pull back or protest, covered his lips with her own. Again, he seemed unable to do anything but lie there, completely shocked. Never-- not once in his entire life-- had he expected things to turn out the way they currently were. But her mouth was warm, and gentle in the same way her hands had been, but coaxing nonetheless. It wasn’t long before he started to respond, his hands hesitantly reaching out for her.

His hands were like ice. Claire instantly tensed, chest tightening with a held breath, but she recovered the next second, enough to slowly draw her hand through his hair.

“Wrap around me.” Her whisper brushed his lips. She could feel her own heartbeat twitch, different from the hard, labored beat of dragging him through the woods, but she was dancing on a thin line here. His breathing hitched but he did as she said, leaning in close, inhaling sharply as her body collided with his. He turned to bury his face in her neck, every nerve in his body jumping and alive as he slid one of his legs between hers to inch that much closer.

She didn’t say anything for a good ten minutes; only stayed close as physics allowed, with one hand wrapped under Ben’s neck and shoulders, the other slowly combing through his hair. It wasn’t necessary, first having been a calming gesture, but she hadn’t stopped. Nor did she want to. The longer they stayed tangled, the more aware she became of his heart. It hadn’t slowed, even though their skin shared the same fire-warmed temperature.

What he’d chattered kept running through her head. It’s what kept her very purposefully still as she warmed him up, save for the hand in his hair. To say she hadn’t considered the possibility of jumping in bed with him from the beginning would be a lie, but the thought was a heavy one, now. It rolled uncomfortably in her stomach - the familiar parasite with the name of Guilt.

“Feelin’ more human?” she chanced, very quietly and against his hair. He hummed in response, sounding lethargic. Then, unexpectedly, he slid one of his hands down into the small of her back, tipping her hips up toward him.

Claire’s eyes closed. Things in her small-brain were switching on without her consent, but that was how it goes. It’d been a while... a  _long_  while. She pulled in a breath through her chest, which was now tight.

“Sure you wanna do that?” she breathed out, inadvertently curling her fingers in his hair. “Playin’ with fire...”

“Should leave an interestin’ scar, sure enough,” came his murmured response. He brushed his lips against her throat, then a little higher, breathing in deep. “I’m... I won’t lie, it’s crossed my mind more’n once.” Claire would’ve chuckled low if the heat from his lips wasn’t deepening the curve of her spine, helping where his hands had started.

“If its true what you said,” she started, her voice thickening, “M’surprised you can think of anythin’ else.”

Ben smiled against the underside of her jaw, but the nerves in his stomach immediately started churning again. “I didn’t think you’d be here more’n the one day, an’ I certainly didn’t think you’d ever be in my bed, Miss--” he swallowed. “Claire. I... I’ve only ever gone off of stories from my unit to fill in the bits in my head on how this works.”

“You got more’n that,” Claire was quick to breathe. She was still fighting with herself about this.

She rolled her lips and opened her eyes, taking a deep breath.  _Dammit_. The cold outside was going to be a hell of a lot colder later. Pulling back from him enough to see his eyes, she made sure he was focused on hers.

“Ben... y’know, whether this happens’er not, I’m gone in the mornin’. Y’know that, right?”

Something in his gaze changed, just a little, but he nodded. She searched his face hard, trying to dig past the little twist of discomfort from what she saw - disappointment, maybe? Whatever it was, though, it was hard to ignore the nod.  _Really_  hard.

 _Hell with it_. From where Claire was standing, they both could use a little recreation. Hell, the man had just about died a virgin. She gave him one more solid nod before moving in, kissing him hard. Already impatient and restrained, the hand in his hair gripped it tight before letting go to slide between them to work at his belt. The enthusiasm was enough to have him lock up in surprise again, but the minute his pants had gone loose he made a low noise against her mouth, pushing his hands into her hair as he deepened the kiss.

Claire used her feet to push his pants the rest of the way off, then rolled more over him with one knee between his once they were free. She pressed his hip down, then slid her hand down the length of him - already hard, no surprise there - what was surprising was how deep she felt the need that came from it. She hummed through the noise in the back of her throat, trailing her lips under his jaw, and started to work him with her hand.

Ben’s eyes closed and his hands went to her hips, grabbing on almost painfully tight, his head tipping back with a gasp on his lips. Everywhere she touched him felt like fire, but her hand felt like she was burning him alive, and he didn’t even care. He groaned helplessly, pushing up into her touch.

The sound only spurred her on. Claire closed her eyes and dragged a shaky breath across his tensing skin, right over the pulse point under his ear. She let her teeth graze, then clamp down lightly the more heated she got; every lift of his hips from the bed and strained sound under her set her blood to a low simmer.

“That’s it,” she rasped below her voice, “Jus’let go...”

His breath hitched, held, then staggered out of him as he found her mouth again, kissing her hard.

“God, talkin’--” he rasped, sounding a little delirious. “You keep talkin’ like that, I’m not gonna hold out long. That ain’t--” He moved one hand off her hip, gliding it up her side, moving it in to palm her left breast. “--ain’t right fair’a me.” But Claire only kept going, grinning once against his lips, then nipped the bottom one.

“Jus’ trust me,” she promised, her voice scraped with effort. Carefully, her knee slid up close between his thighs, leaning into him as her hand slid down to meet it, faintly twisting up. His eyes rolled back and he groaned openly. “Y’can have anythin’ y’want, jus’let me hear you.”

“ _You,_ “ he begged, pulling her against him again by her other hip. “Please.  _Please._ “

 _“After_ ,” Claire countered, her voice barely anything but breath. Her pace quickened, and she whined against his stubbled jaw, “Let go for me.”

His body went tense beneath her and a half-second later he came, the muscles in his neck throbbing and his hips bucking up hard as he spilled over her closed fist. Claire worked him through it, easing off by following the let-out of tension in the body beneath her. She hummed hotly close to his ear, shifting her weight to scrape her hand off to the side.

“ _Now_  your heart’s goin’.”

Ben gave a weak laugh, one arm going over his eyes, but it didn’t stop the blush burning over his face. He could feel his muscles twitching as his synapses continued to fire.

“That...” he mumbled. “Not even by myself, I ain’t never gone off that quick. What’d you do?”

Chuckling breathily, Claire settled with both knees between his, resting most of her weight on them and her palms at his sides. “Just needed a little break in you’re routine, is all.” She rolled her shoulders back to sit on her heels, hands moving to undo what was left of her braid, and primping the waves until they fell loose. There were the usual nicks and stripes of old scars on her, but the most noticeable were the eight inch claw marks that sliced across her rib-cage.

Ben pulled his arm off his eyes, looking toward her. Just the sight of her made his mouth go dry. He willed his body to warm up faster, craving the press of her skin against his like whiskey. He reached for her, trailing his fingertips up her sides.

“You’re...” he breathed. “You’re beautiful.”

The words reached deep past Claire’s surface and tangled around her next breath. It was bittersweet, though, and more on the bitter end thanks to her own perspective. She didn’t take compliments well, especially of that nature... the kind that kept people close.

So, instead of saying anything, she simply smiled down at him, with heat that scraped her bottom lip with her teeth. She lead his hands to her breasts with her own, rolling into his hips just enough to encourage. His eyes dropped to watch, attaching a visual to the sensation against his palms and the sound that hissed out of her as he grazed his thumbs over the peach-colored aureole. Already he could feel the fire in his belly starting to burn.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she breathed, sliding her hands to his wrists.

“Gettin’ there,” he said, the words a deep rumble in his chest as he leaned up, moving his hands around to her back to bend her down and meet his mouth in a searing kiss. It stole her breath and twisted her hands in the bedding at his sides. Claire’s eyes closed, and she pressed into him with a very sharp and sudden flare of need. His body arched up against hers as his hands slid down her back, fingers following the dip of her spine all the way to the small of her back, then firmly grabbing her ass and pressing her down into him. The moan was swallowed up in their kiss.

By the thick jab into her skin, there was no doubt his cock was hard again, which sent a hungry, melted sound on the back of Claire’s breath. Bracing with a palm on his chest, she straddled Ben’s hips, took his hand from hers and guided it to where their bodies  _almost_  met. He broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, looking up into her face, his pupils blown and his eyes glazed. He could feel it, her heat, her warmth, and every part of him that wasn’t focused on her face was focused on  _that_. It felt like a physical pulling, and he took the invitation for what it was, leading himself in and pressing up. His eyes went wide and his jaw went slack.

Claire let go of the breath she’d been holding. Where his eyes opened as far as they went, hers closed and clenched as she turned her hips and pushed down.

“ _God--_ “ he gasped, his voice choked and his hands moving to her hips again, thrusting up into the unimaginable heat, trying to grind her against him as he did so. Nothing had prepared him for reality. Nothing could  _compare_. She was branded on him now, forever. “Yes,  _yes._ “

Everything outside the tiny cabin walls disappeared; something about the strong, yet tentative grip on her hips and the wire in his voice set him apart. Claire swallowed her gasp and pulled her hips back to fall into a strong, raw rhythm. She claimed him, gasping against his shoulder, his neck; kissing him like the world would dissolve if she couldn’t taste his lips.

With every passing second, he seemed to be getting more bold. His hands slid in, fingertips indenting the flesh beneath, then he started lifting her with each withdraw and pushing her down hard with the next thrust. The sounds he made grew deeper, more gritty and desperate, until he held her up just for a moment and pounded rapidly up into her.

“ _Oh God--_ “ she gasped, gripping the blankets hard and rasping desperately against Ben’s shoulder. The friction burned hot in her core, tapped to the base of her spine and flexed her thighs hard. “Like that..  _jus’like that_ , Ben.”

Ben’s nipped at her neck, his breath echoing in her ears, rolling her hips down into the next few thrusts, trying to mimic the way she’d moved against. Every sound he made,  _especially_  when she spoke, shot straight through him like a full-body stroke. He wanted to come again, more than anything, it felt  _so_  good, but having her above him -- having that bone deep warmth, pulling him in, refusing to let go -- all he wanted was to get her to shake apart. He  _needed_  it. The encouragement told him what she wanted, and he gave it to her, hips snapping up harder.

“Deeper?” he asked, his voice a growl. “Harder? Maybe...”

Claire gazed hungry,  _wildly_  down at him, unable to get enough. His eyes were as intense as his grip and each jarring movement - consumed by the moment as fully as she was. In that moment of blazing solidarity, she wanted him in every way imaginable. Her hair bouncing with her breasts, bits of it clinging to her heat-moistened skin and gilded by the light from the fire, she leaned back tall on her knees, then braced her palms on his behind her. The sight left his mouth dry. Her words cut off by a moan that rolled her head back.

“ _Both_ \--gimme’ everythin’ you got.”

“Christ,” he gasped, pushing up on his arms until he was sitting, then grabbing her knees and tucking them up over his before he slid both arms under her back to support her. Claire immediately cupped his jaw and claimed his mouth, rolling her hips down as far as she possibly could and surrounding them with her hair. She breathed hard in the kiss, nipped his lip, then went in again, unable and unwilling to leash her passion. His hands slid in to hold her again at the hips, lifting her and thrusting up hard each time, his muscles straining against her frame. After a few deep thrusts he turned her, rolling her onto her back and repositioning her so the next thrust sent her half an inch up the mattress.

Claire dug one heel into the mattress and hiked the other up to Ben’s hip, gasping at the near bruising force. She held onto his sides, arching up to meet him with her chin peeled back deeply.

“ _That’s it_ \--yes, keep goin’...” Her voice wavered, jarred by each thrust. With a short break in his rhythm to push her ankle even farther up his back, then a moment where he pulled back and slid it over his shoulder, Ben returned to his previous momentum. Each exhale was labored, tinted with a groan and some half-muttered word he couldn’t quite form, and the force of his thrusts lessened as speed became more focused. He was getting close again, and his body demanded it.

The change in the angle dragged something right in the line of fire; perfect friction dragged more of her voice out with her breaths. Claire’s nails sunk into his flexing sides, then moved them to his hips and dug them in there when her body hit the threshold. Her lips gaped and quivered when she cried out at the ceiling, her voice sharped desperately around his name.

“Oh  _God,_ that’s it--” he moaned, his whole body curling toward her, losing his rhythm as she clenched like a vice around him. His eyes fell closed as the words poured out of him like a blurred prayer. “Good girl, good girl, darling,  _beautiful Claire_ , I--” Then he was gone, his whole body going tense and his hips snapping forward jerkily, matching the stagger of his breathing.

They reeled together; the white-hot sparks behind her eyelids steadily fading as her body slowly spiralled down from the high. In the meantime, her leg dropped from his shoulder, and one hand idly followed the lines of a well muscled torso, thoughtlessly fascinated by the way it moved with his breathing. He eventually settled his weight against her, trying to put most of it in his knees as his face pressed against her neck. His heart was still racing, and it was significantly harder to find a normal breath, but he’d never felt so alive than he did in that very moment. Claire let her eyes close, and played with his sweat-heavy hair.

It was at least five minutes before he was able to breathe normally, and when he did he took such a deep breath.

“What could I say to make you stay at least a little longer?” he said into her neck, small and quiet. Claire was quiet for a moment, but her eyes stayed closed. She drew her cheek affectionately along his brow, and exhaled softly.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere just yet,” she said against his hair.

“No, I know...” he whispered. “I just...” He didn’t want her to go. Maybe that was a big request with their only knowing each other for three days, but that didn’t make it any less true. She’d saved his life. She’d managed to get him to open up in a way that nobody else ever had, and she hadn’t called him a lunatic afterward. He couldn’t imagine going back to the way his life had been without her in it.

“How ‘bout this,” she cooed in the same voice. “We sleep ‘til we can’t possibly sleep no more - then we’ll deal with the rest of the world.” Claire wasn’t in any hurry to leave. She’d found an ease here, with him, that she couldn’t remember ever knowing. She wasn’t looking forward to removing herself from Ben’s company, but the thought of staying in one place... it hadn’t been part of her psyche for a very, very long time. It wasn’t part of her life. He nodded, shifting his weight off of her and settling on the side. He was definitely warmer now, and tired. Probably nowhere near as tired as she was, though.

“I can draw you a bath, if you’d like a soak first,” he offered. “Reckon you’re probably achin’ a bit from pulling my dead weight.” Claire just chuckled tiredly, but made no effort to move.

“I’ll feel it in the mornin’. For now,  _I’m_  the dead weight.”

Ben moved one hand to stroke her skin, trailing his fingertips down the valley of her breasts, over her sternum, tracing the deep scars. He did it soundlessly, his eyes following the trail his fingers made. Claire’s eyes fell closed, too heavy under the weight of warmth, exhaustion, and the odd contentment that crept into her muscles. The only thing she concentrated on was the tickle-sensation left by his fingers. And for once, she didn’t automatically think about the origin of the slightly raised skin he traced.

“All my life,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “I ambled. Never really felt comfortable nowhere. I settled ‘cuz I was gettin’ on, but it never felt right. I was still lookin’ for somethin’.” He leaned in, brushing his lips to her temple. “I found it now.”

Claire’s chest suddenly went very tight, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Unexpected,  _completely_ , and a bit on the terrifying side, but she held onto it for reasons she couldn’t explain. She  _liked_  it, even though the words he said would be difficult things to deal with in just about any aspect of her life.

Her breath stopped for that little moment, as did the way her hand drew back and forth between his shoulder blades before starting again.

“Y’think, maybe, y’would’a found it earlier if someone else had taken you to bed?” Her tone was cautious, but soft, and unaccusing.

He cracked a weak smile. “I’ve had an offer or two along the way. I didn’t exactly choose a priest’s life; it just... happened that way.” Claire laughed a nearly soundless laugh.

“My kinda life ain’t no better,” she said with a breath. He dragged the backs of his nails up the way he’d trailed them, eyes flicking up to her face.

“If they’re all like that, I reckon you’re right,” he said. “But all the same... I don’t think I’ve felt as good as I did shadowin’ you down at the railroad camp in my life, except maybe when I first joined the army, before it all went to hell.”

 _Good choice of words_. Claire gnawed on the inside of her cheek, running her words through her mind before carefully picking what came out.

“What’re you tryin’ t’say, Ben.”

“I wouldn’t mind keepin’ you company, until you get sick’a me,” he said. Then he took a breath and let it out. “Or not. I understand if you’d rather juss pass on through. You don’t know me any more’n I know you, and I know I didn’t exactly give you the best example of keepin’ a cool head in the thick of things, but--”

A quiet sigh deflated Claire’s chest, and she let her head loll closer to his, lightly nuzzled in his hair.

“Let’s sleep on it, alright?” She was fading, both mentally and physically, and the conversation they were about to have needed her with all wicks lit. Plus, this moment was better than any she had in recent memory - she wanted it to last uncomplicated for as long as it could. He fell silent, nodding even though she hadn’t opened her eyes to look at him properly, and settled his head on the little pillow next to hers. The bed was a little cramped with both of them on it, but it was pressed into the corner wall, and he didn’t mind pulling her against him. She fit against him like a gun in a good holster, the way it was supposed to feel, and the satisfaction that came with it was more than enough to keep him quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED (maybe)...

**Author's Note:**

> Please follow effyeateamfreewill2 on tumblr for more great stories and content in the TFW 2.0 universe.


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